Franz fixed his gaze on me, staring intently for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually he replied. “You cannot know what you are taking on, Peter. I am guessing that you have never travelled more than fifty miles from your farm. What do you know of the world? How would you do all of this? And why would you bother? I am dying. I have achieved what I wanted - all that I ask is that you pass on my last words to my family. I can ask nothing further. Please leave me now.”

I felt hurt by his rebuke, but was not prepared to give up. “As I see it, you have no choice. I will make contact with your family, but sometime in the future I will also try to find the diamonds and ensure that your family receive what is rightfully theirs.”

He winced in pain and for the first time I could see tears in his eyes. Away in the distance I could hear voices, English voices, getting ever closer in the morning light. “You are right,” he said at last, “I have no choice, I am a dead man. But I will make you promise me this. Should you find the diamonds and carry out your plan, you must promise me that you will sell the gems and take half of the proceeds.”

I began to interject, but he silenced me abruptly. “You must promise me this, Peter. It is my will. I want you to take half. It is only fair. It is more than I could ask of you and more than I could imagine at this time. But there is something more that you must have.”

He smiled at me and his pained eyes looked down at his chest. “The key, Peter, you must take the safe key. It is in the locket around my neck. Now take it and promise me that you will honour my wishes.”

I hesitated at this point. But watching his eyes and mouth close slowly, I realised that his time had come. I opened his large, fur-lined overcoat and undid the silver buttons at the neck of his uniform. My hand felt for the chain around his neck and slowly I pulled out a small decorative locket with a crucifix on its lid. Opening the clasp, I pulled out a small, dark-metal key and placed this in my pocket. On the inside lid of the locket I could see a small picture of what I guessed to be you and your mother. I closed the locket and once again placed it beneath his clothes. His eyes opened briefly and finally. I found myself whispering to him, as if somehow disturbing his sleep. “I won’t let you down.”

I stood up at this point and thought I saw him smile, but realised then that he was dead. Behind me, I heard a voice cry out. I turned and saw a uniformed officer running towards me. As he reached us, I saw him look me over before glancing down at Franz. “I’m Major Davenport, Royal Army Medical Corps. Is he dead?”

“Yes, he’s dead,” I answered, and struggled to hold back the tears.

The Major looked at me sympathetically. “Don’t worry, son, happens to us all - both the death and the grieving. Never an easy thing to see someone die, even your enemies.”

There was much activity after that. Throughout the day various branches of the military came and went and a massive clear up operation began. I was questioned by an Army Captain, but maintained that I had run from the farmhouse after the crash and had only ventured into the woods a short time before Major Davenport had found me. All of which seemed highly plausible.

Ten days later, the crew were buried in the village churchyard, the event being attended by around 300 local people and army and navy personnel. It was a simple ceremony, with due respect given to the German airmen, in spite of the inevitable and popular hostility that many of the villagers had towards these raiders.

We were told that where any personal belongings had been found near the crash site, these would be returned to the families of the dead. I have always hoped that this was the case. In fact, if you do have in your possession the locket that Franz wore, you will now know for certain that what I have told you is the truth . All of which would be enough of a story. But I still have much more to tell.

For the next two months, I could think of nothing else but Franz and his legacy. My brother noticed the change in me. He said that I had grown up in a short space of time. He knew that the crash had had a big impact on me, but clearly did not know why. I confided in him that I needed to get away from the farm and travel. We both knew what that meant. In short, I told him that I was going to join the army and fight in France. He tried to talk me out of it and pointed out that I was still too young. But I would not listen and said that I would lie about my age. I was a tall lad anyway and the years of farm labour had built me up to look much older than I was.

I remained resolute in my determination to travel to France and do what I had agreed to. I managed to find out some information about the town of Albert and committed this to memory. Joining the army seemed the only option, although I had no idea what I would do if I ever made it onto French soil. Using some money given to me by Tom, I travelled to Ipswich one Saturday morning and, lying about my age, joined the armed forces. After a period of training in England, I was taken along with countless other young men across to France to face the horrors of the Western Front.

In many respects, I could not have joined the war at a worse time, given the death and carnage I experienced in the early part of 1917 in the freezing temperatures of that dreadful winter. I do not wish to dwell on this grim period of my life for it pains me to do so and would, in any case, fill up far too many pages in the telling. Let me just say this. I realised within days of landing in France, that I could not face the prospect of weeks - let alone months - of that Hell. I heard other men talk in whispers about escaping, deserting the trenches, and hiding out in some quiet and rural part of France until the war had ended. For many this was idle banter, wishful thinking, bravado at best. For me, it became a reality.

My company was relocated first to Ypres in Belgium and, by April of that year, we received orders to move to Amiens in France. Bearing in mind my keen knowledge and love of geography, you may realise that this move excited me for two reasons. Firstly, the prospect of a company on the move gave me every hope of escaping and deserting the trenches. Secondly, our planned relocation in Amiens would place me much closer to the town of Albert .

I am not proud of the fact that I deserted and left my fellow countrymen behind. There has not been a day go by when I have not thought about my actions and felt a tug of compassion for the good friends that died on those battlefields. But I justify it like this. I did not start the war and I have never been a violent or aggressive man. I believe in pacifism. The war was wrong and statesmen and politicians - who cared little about the millions of lives that they were about to ruin - were responsible for starting it. Let them answer to the masses. Let them stand up now and say that the war was justified and those lives were lost in a good cause. I can live with my guilt, can they?

And so it was that one evening, while we were camped along the River Somme close to the town of Abbeville and I was posted on guard duty, I was able to slip away from our position and leave my company behind.

The weeks that followed were terrifying for me. I had to avoid capture by my own side and was reluctant to move more than a few miles each night. During the day, I kept myself hidden and grabbed what I could to eat from the trees and hedgerows once the rations I had taken with me ran out.

In my second week of freedom, I had the first of many lucky episodes in France. I had come across a derelict farmhouse not far from the village of Aumont, some thirty-five miles from Albert. Inside, I found a reasonable bed, some food, clothes and boots, which I guessed had been abandoned only a short time before. I also found a map hanging on the wall of the dining room, which I removed from its frame and folded up to take with me. I felt comfortable to be changing out of my uniform, donning the attire of a French peasant farmer - in reality, not much different to my farm clothes back in Suffolk. I buried my uniform, army boots and military papers and, most reluctantly, my rifle. I now had nothing on me to indicate who I was or where I had come from. In fact, my only real possession at that time was the small, black-metal key that I kept on a chain around my neck.